


Broken Hallelujahs

by TheAmethystRiddle



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmethystRiddle/pseuds/TheAmethystRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They heard each other as they moved around the brownstone, in cries at night and sacred chords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not A Cry

**Author's Note:**

> I've also got this up on FF.net (under the same username) so in case you've also seen that I swear it's not stolen or anything.

“Joan!”

She was certain she had heard her name, had been woken by the sound of Sherlock’s voice. The floor creaked cold under her feet as she crept through the house in search of him.

She found him half-clothed and sprawled across a bed in one of the myriad guest rooms, fast asleep and certainly incapable of calling out to her. He snorted a bit and she ducked a smile.

With a small sigh she tugged off his one remaining boot and placed it on the floor. It sat vacant next to her foot and the thought crossed her mind that she could fit into it, could fit into any of his clothes, could fall asleep in his t-shirt or wear his jeans to a crime scene, parade around the house in his boxers just to feel his eyes on her. He could be hers, clothes and all.

It scared her, that thought and how much she wanted it, the way her heart leaped when she thought of him calling her name not in the dead of the night but in the heat of climax, the way his voice would sound breathy and wild, the way his chest would feel heaving under her hands, the way she would need him and he her. She took a step back, fighting the urge to wake him now and beg him for just that.

His shirt had rolled up under his armpits and she came close again to pull it back down, smoothing the wrinkles on his back with a shaking hand. He snorted again and she flinched, slipped away with her heart in her throat for fear of being caught at loving him.

Long after she had left he stirred, reaching out in his sleep to clutch like a child at the blankets beneath him. From within whatever dream troubled his legendary mind came a plea whispered into the now-empty darkness. 

“Joan.”


	2. The Fourth, The Fifth

The introduction of his companion into the environment of the brownstone had brought with it a variety of new sounds and smells, chief among those the undeniable loveliness of her voice and the scents of sandalwood and cinnamon wafting throughout the house. He found himself gravitating towards situations in which he might further observe these traits, and it was in pursuit of this goal that he found himself lingering outside her room as she prepared for bed.

She was humming, a tune he recognized but could not identify. She had an excellent mastery of musical tone, though this hardly came as a surprise to him. Watson had proven herself quite skilled in a variety of areas and he had long since adjusted his expectations of her accordingly.

As the humming progressed into quiet singing he found himself overwhelmed by her and the quiet elegance that seemed to accompany her every action. Despite the assertions many made to the contrary, he was fully capable of appreciating the beautiful. There was beauty in the deductive process, in the flight of the bee, and most of all in this woman who had come to him and made a man of a broken vessel.

“Baby, I’ve been here before; I know this room, I’ve walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you…”

The swelling in his chest was certainly a psychological symptom, as along with it came the image of Watson in his arms, held to him so tightly he was able to feel her smile against his chest; Watson asleep next to him, her naked body silver in the moonlight as he trailed a finger down the ridge of her spine; Watson pressed between him and any available surface, the heat of her body seeping into his through open mouths and questing hands.

The singing trailed off into silence and he started as if from a trance. Without a word he slipped downstairs to bury himself once again in his work. It was not until much later that Watson, hearing a creak in the hall, poked her head out of the door to see an empty landing.


	3. Blaze of Light

The cacophony of his televisions was a daily ritual in their house, one Joan hardly enjoyed but conceded to him with relative grace. At the very least it made her life more interesting; she never knew whether she’d be feeding Clyde to the sound of a screaming Al Pacino or the stilted dialogue of a daytime soap. By now they had mostly managed to synch up their schedules so that he listened while she ran, which thankfully kept her out of the house for the worst of his racket.

Still, she almost always caught the tail end of it coming in from her jog, and she’d learned to judge his mood by whatever was on the loudest television. She’d noticed a theme lately, or at least she thought she had; she most often came home to the sound of love. Some days it was true love, some days lost love, others unrequited love or the wordlessness of making love.

When she peeked in on him she found him more and more frequently with his eyes closed, mouthing the words with an upturned face as if he were praying. It was a little strange, but she thought it oddly endearing. He never seemed to notice her return, so she stopped to watch him more often than not.

She had to admit there was something mesmerizing about the way his tongue flicked out between his parted lips, the way his hands drifted to his thighs as he watched the screens, the way his muscles rippled as he stretched. He was always undressed to some degree, and she found that the less clothing he wore the more trouble she had catching her breath.

The worst days were those when he wore nothing but briefs and he might as well have been naked because she could see everything, could follow all his lines to their ends, and she wanted nothing more than to make him watch her pull them off slowly, make him beg to have her touch him, reduce that brilliant mind to quivering need. Those days she stayed in the shower until the heat numbed her skin and the distant rumble of the TVs went silent.

Not once did he turn to see her.


End file.
